


the spaces where our garden grew wild

by chryysaskk



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Fix-It, Flower Symbolism, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Love Confessions, M/M, Multi, Nightmares, Polyamory, Reminiscing, Temporary Character Death, grammarly counts as beta i guess but i found the tag funny, kind of, no beta we die like everyone does here but they're fine, nothing serious but to be sure, rated m for gore, this sounds a bit darker than it actually is but the warnings are mostly to be safe, well the whole fic is a symbolism tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 09:28:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29997300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chryysaskk/pseuds/chryysaskk
Summary: He cuts through the branches, desperate, but they grow back, thicker and thicker and almost hiding that raven hair, that red doublet behind their leaves. He grunts and shouts and pants and his sword rips the air like paper. He sees them again. Or is he?Black, isn’t her hair? A chain.Red, isn’t his doublet? Blood.Oh, he’s too busy, too focused on the thorns. Of course he would, they have hurt him too much by now not to notice them. Yet he doesn’t hear the voices anymore. He doesn’t hear the screams. He doesn’t hear his name.And when he does, it’s too late.orA study in gardening.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36





	the spaces where our garden grew wild

**Author's Note:**

> can i hear a wahoo for my longest one-shot so far?? thank you.  
> there are some ugly stuff in here but it's mostly vague and only some parts, however better be safe than sorry so i tagged some warnings.  
> yes, they die. but they're alive!! that's the point of the story anyway.  
> finally i have to thank that one anon that send me the title on tumblr and was the source of inspiration for this whole thing (that was two months ago but we don't talk about that)
> 
> i really hope you enjoy and if you decide to leave kudos or a comment i'll give you a hug and a smootch on the head <3

The sky looks beautiful, she thought. She never did that, didn’t usually stop to look at the sky. It’s admittedly not what she was doing right now either. No, it was not. She just had to look somewhere, to avert her eyes from the road to where the wind blew. So that it dried the tears threatening to fall from her eyes. 

She had shed tears. All the way down the mountain, every step, every tree. Every tear another droplet of trust wasted on the ground. Oh, those were too real. As if to compensate for all the moments that were fake.

Lovers. She was too old to believe this time would be different.

The sky looked indeed beautiful. Red and pink and orange, and the sun, although still not set, painted it with its rays as if they were brushes flowing on blue paper. Red. Her eyes caught movement behind her, albeit far, still, it’s as if she sensed it. The same taste of tears, the same cracking of a heart. She cleared her throat and turned her head, only slightly. Only to catch full sight of the bard standing for a moment there, behind her, his eyes piercing her just like the first daylight pierces through a closed window. Still, he was silent. And the way he looked at her. Just like he always did, yes, with indifference and rivalry. She knew mutual feelings when she saw them. But if she looked deeper, there was something else too. Something new. 

Empathy. Gentleness.

His eyes were flooded. She said nothing though, only stared back at him without bothering to change her harsh look. It was the only one she afforded right now. So he lowered his look swallowing and nodded faintly at her. Like a greeting. And turned around, continuing down the mountain.

She looked at the sky spreading in front of her again. She never expected to share mutual feelings with the bard except for resentment maybe. She couldn’t even if she tried; he was too much of an idiot. She smiled at herself, for some reason. It was comforting, as bad as it sounded. Having someone to hurt with. Despite the thorns.

High on the mountain, the wind blew harder. The Witcher stared at the distance. Deep breaths shaking his shoulders, his nostrils flaring, his heartbeat a bit faster than usual. 

_What I am missing._

_Too much. I’m missing too much._

There they go, there they go.

~~

The night was warm, as warm as an early spring night could be, the last patches of snow still lingering on the roadside. It’s silent except for the chirping of a bird that had forgotten to return to its nest, enchanted by the first blossoms embellishing the trees, knowing that something so beautiful was worth singing for. It’s silent. Except for the whetstone dragged on the sword blade with slow, as though rhythmical with the birdsong movements. Geralt didn’t raise his eyes from the blade. Devoted to his work, knowing that if he allowed his mind to wander, it wouldn’t come back, lost in the paths of his mind, so many more than the one he was supposed to follow. 

He was a Witcher. There was no other Path. 

Yet there was. More than one, more than he dared to admit. And he was too afraid, too broken to follow any of them.

His eyes didn’t look away from the blade. But the mind is a strange enemy, attacking from the inside. From the heart. 

He glanced at a faint scar on his forearm. A small smile, could be a laugh, escaped his lips. One would say it was one of the scars he’d gained on the big hunts, killing a monster unheard of. That’s what the songs said. That’s what Yennefer thought, that night in the tent, as she was peering at his body as if admiring a gallery of outstanding art. It had been no hunt though. No monster. It had been a damn thorn in a healer’s garden, ironic as it sounded. Yennefer had laughed when he told her. Gods, she was so beautiful when she laughed.

_“Geralt of Rivia, the mighty Witcher, scarred by a thorn. An unorthodox way to be injured, for someone like you.” She smiled. “What’s next? Are you going to die from a garden pitchfork?”_

_Geralt huffed and shook his head, imagining a death quite different admittedly. Like the ones of previous Witchers, heroic or not, still defending what they had learned to defend. It’s not like he could avoid Destiny anyway. He would like to. He stared at Yennefer and took a deep breath, letting his eyes wander for a moment only to return to her. “You know”, he muttered, “I’m thinking it would be nice if one day I indeed retired. Maybe as a stableman,” he paused to hear Yennefer’s chuckle. “I’d like to have a garden. A normal life,” he smiled, “one that you’re a constant part of.”_

_She looked at him, her smile a little fainter now, a playful glint in her eyes. “Are you asking me to retire with you, Geralt?”_

_Her voice made him melt. He raised an eyebrow. “Only if you want.”_

_“Well,” she sighed and raised her eyes on the ceiling as if already thinking about their life, “it’s a nice dream. Something to wait for, even if it never comes. And anyway,” she shrugged, “a garden would be nice.”_

_He took in her scent. Lilac and gooseberries. Of course. One of his favourite scents, and those were barely five. How can I dream of a garden, he thought, when I have one right in front of me? A garden wild and beautiful and fragrant. It had its thorns, every garden does. Some of them he’d grown himself. But he wouldn’t let them get in the way._

~~

He raises his sword cautiously, ready for anything to show up from behind the dense bushes. His steps are slow, silent like a cat’s as if scared that if he makes any noise, he’ll be unable to hear anything else. Anything resembling that whisper he’d heard less than a minute ago, a whisper that, stable as it was, sounded scared, hollow. He knows that voice. Gods, he knows it and he also knows he would hear it calling his name for the rest of his days without ever wanting it to stop. But not like this. Oh, not like this.

A sharp glint catches his eye some meters away from the spot he is standing, something shining on the ground, between the wild branches and the thick foliage that embraces wilted flowers, lilacs and roses, the remainders of a garden once blossoming with care. He approaches. He knows, before he thinks about anything else, like an instinct, he knows. And thinks, gods, how much he’d like to have no idea. 

He lowers on one knee, ducks under the bushes and reaches for whatever is blinding his eyes as if reflecting the rays of a nonexistent sun, a sun that once had been. And as his fingers trace cold silver carved with a shape he’d felt so many times under his fingers, his heart flutters. A black velvet ribbon. An obsidian star. 

Oh, how real it feels.

He hears his name again, flowing with the breeze, only now it’s trembling and suddenly louder and he stands on his feet, sword raised and the branches grow in front of him and he looks around, lost, desperate, encircled by leaves and thorns and bushes and flowers turning red as though painted and he cuts and searches and searches for a way out and then the earth trembles with a familiar voice screaming.

“ _GERALT!!!_ ”

~~

He stumbled close to Roach, reached for the saddlebag, groaning, arm pressed around his abdomen. He searched inside the bag, caught a small bottle and chugged it for dear life. He didn’t bother returning it to its place, instead, he threw it on the ground and searched inside the bag again for bandages, swearing when the only thing his hand brushed on is a cloth that definitely wasn’t a bandage. He didn’t really care though as his vision blurred in the light of the fire and he pulled the cloth as he fell on his knees, tying it around his abdomen with trembling hands. His breath shortened and if his head hit the ground hard, he was already unconscious to feel the pain.

When he did feel the pain throbbing in his head, he was already met with the first daylight, blinded. He squinted and made to sit up, grunting when he felt a sharp tugging at his abdomen. He fell back again and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. It’s silent. Except for Roach snorting and walking closer to him, lowering her head to nuzzle in his hair, making him huff. It’s silent. And, as hard as it was to admit, there was no other exception.

And how he missed that exception now.

He swallowed, looked up at Roach and put his arms against the ground, trying to sit up again. He did, barely, and shuffled to the closest tree to rest again the trunk. Then he lowered his eyes on the wound. The white cloth had gone red with blood, but at least it had dried. He untied it to reveal a red scar across his abdomen, almost healed yet hurting him still. He sighed, ignored the pain that caused. And made to throw the cloth aside.

Only that he didn’t. 

He stared at it, felt the texture. Silk. He had no reason to own a silk white cloth. Or maybe he had. As he unfolded it, he recognized a white shirt, embroidered with little flowers on the collar. A red stain was painting the front side and some of it reaching the back, ruining it completely. He stared at it, gritted his teeth. His hands were clutching it, tightly, just like he always wished to do. Yet it did next to nothing serving as a substitute.

_“Come on, Geralt, it will suit you.”_

_“No doubt.”_

_“Do not mock me, you idiot. You have never tried.”_

_Geralt peered at Jaskier leaning against a tree beside him. His hands were moving feverishly, intertwining green stems, tight as not to fall apart. Colourful flowers were slowly forming a crown, yellow and light blue and a little bit of red, buttercups and forget-me-nots and carnations. It was beautiful indeed and definitely where his attention was drawn on, and not on the skilled hands and strong fingers brushing against the petals. He swallowed._

_“Back at home, we have a wonderful garden,” said Jaskier without being asked, as he always did. “Even you would be impressed if you saw it. That’s how I learned to make flower crowns.”He tightened the last knot and sighed, taking a look at his work as if gazing at the greatest painting. Then smirked at Geralt and stood up. “There you go.”_

_Before Geralt managed to protest the leaves were falling in front of his eyes. He snorted, fixed the crown on his head less than eagerly. Then looked at Jaskier. Well, probably he was wrong before._ Now _Jaskier looked as if he was gazing at the greatest painting. He felt his cheeks burning._

_He’d never considered flowers for anything else than their abilities and yet, if he was to see that smile on Jaskier’s lip’s again, he would consider them as so much more. He thought he could even let Jaskier show him their home garden._

_It would be a nice meeting point._

~~

“ _GERALT!!!_ ”

He turns around, terrified, but not as much as the scream he hears now for the third time. Voices and screams and whispers that make him shudder as if feeling their fear. And it’s not just one now, it’s two, and he knows those two voices better than the back of his hand. And how he wishes he didn’t. He walks through thick branches and leaves and flowers that wilt the moment he stands close to them, as if he is the reason for their death.

Oh, he is.

His eye catches a glimpse of red among the bushes and he thinks it’s a rose or any other kind of flower he didn’t give a damn about. And yet, and yet, he stands closer and suddenly it’s not a flower at all, it’s just a piece of clothing, torn and achingly familiar. He approaches, runs his fingertips over it, his heart thumping inside his chest. It’s silk, and red, and although he knows the colour of that specific doublet he also somehow knows that there’s something more on it than the garment’s colour. 

He hears the voices again. And again, and again, as if blowing with the wind that hit him out of nowhere and he looks around and it’s green, branches and leaves and then oh, _flowers_ still alive. He feels a wave of relief for a moment, only to have it drained of him again when he realizes the flowers are buttercups and forget-me-nots and carnations. And the moment he seems to realize it, the flowers wilt.

_And anyway, a garden would be nice._

_Back at home, we have a wonderful garden._

Figures. He sees figures behind the branches and for a moment he thinks he can reach them. Craves to reach them, hearing their voices call him, screaming, weak, terrified but cold, so cold as if they already come from ghosts. He sees them now, yes. Raven hair. A bright red doublet. Shadows and yet their images are so clear in his mind. The last gaze he shot them, that’s what he sees. The tears prickling in violet eyes, the ones that used to enchant everything they laid their gaze upon. The tightened lips that struggled to swallow a sob, the ones that used to calm the wildest waves with their song. He raises his sword, cuts through the bushes. His skin is torn by thorns. He’s exhausted. He doesn’t care. He has to reach them, he has to.

Blood flows between his feet as he cuts and cuts as though trying to reform a garden grown irreparably wild. It’s not too late, it can’t be. It’s his blood, he thinks, it’s the thorns. They come closer, oh they do, he can reach them, he can grow the garden back beautiful again, he can, he will. He cuts through the branches, desperate, but they grow back, thicker and thicker and almost hiding that raven hair, that red doublet behind their leaves. He grunts and shouts and pants and his sword rips the air like paper. He sees them again. Or is he?

Black, isn’t her hair? A chain.

Red, isn’t his doublet? Blood.

Oh, he’s too busy, too focused on the thorns. Of course he would, they have hurt him too much by now not to notice them. Yet he doesn’t hear the voices anymore. He doesn’t hear the screams. He doesn’t hear his name. 

And when he does, it’s too late.

When he does, he’s kneeling. Crawling. Reaching. Black hair sinking in blood. Violet eyes, wide-open, a moment ago frightened. Now lifeless. He can still smell the lilac and gooseberries. Or does it come from the garden?

A white shirt drenched in blood. Blue eyes staring at him, the void, everywhere, nowhere. If he touches his lips he can still hear the songs. Or is it the voices?

He’s small, shrinking suddenly, curling to himself. Blood. A chain. He’s shaking. Eyes looking at him. Accusing him. He closes his eyes, his ears, whimpering. Do not feel, do not feel. Witchers don’t feel. Witchers don’t feel, Geralt. Who are you? Where are you? What have you done? 

There they go, there they go.

A sob. Then, slowly, hoarsely, desperately, a scream.

Geralt screams and jerks up on his bedroll, shaking in terror.

~~

The sun was shining with a warmth fit as a goodbye from the last days of April. Light poured from the windows, brightening the whole room and Yennefer found herself unbothered to close the curtains. She looked outside the window, let the sun blind her eyes. Sighed. Maybe she should get out more, she thought, as much as she refused to admit it. Get some air, not the one blowing inside the house, getting trapped between walls. She needed fresh air, away from whatever smells Vengerberg brought to each corner, she wanted to go into the forest, sit down, take a deep breath. Rest, for once, or better, give a fitting end to the rest she was getting the past months. 

It’s not that she felt comfortable at home anyway. It was good, having a place to retire for a bit, to remember what it’s like to live like a normal person. Be nothing more than a random lady strolling at the market, at least then she fit there, belonged somewhere, even if it was nothing but a shopping crowd. 

Still alone nonetheless. Unimportant.

She was a fool. She knew she was, as she felt her eyes getting wet and blamed it on the sun. Nobody smart plays fair. She knew that, always did. Still, she thought that maybe, this once, it wouldn’t harm to hope for something more, to play fair, to give life a chance. She shook her head, laughed at herself. She was as foolish as then, picking up a daisy, hoping for something, everything, anything a little girl could hope for. She was a little girl. A child. What else can a child ask from the world other than to be something for it, for someone? Something important. Was she a child, then, still? 

She was not, she knew. Yet, oh how bare had she laid her daisy, and how cruelly were its petals ripped apart and thrown on the air. She had played fair. But Geralt was smart, smarter than her. And smart people don’t play fair.

She sighed again and turned around, sat on her bed. She would go to the forest tomorrow. Today, she could use some sleep. If she managed to get any.

A loud knocking on the door made her realize sleep would wait for a bit. When she saw who it was from the window, she realized sleep was now out of the schedule. She swallowed, waited for a bit. Maybe he would go away. He wouldn’t know if she was there anyway.

Another knock, louder. “Yennefer? Please, open the door!”

Something in her stomach dropped at the sound of his voice. Did she really want him to leave? After all those times she saw how he…

Before he could knock another time, she pulled the door open and stood still, as still as the man in front of her, his hand raised ready to knock and his eyes wide. Like that, in his bright yellow doublet, he looked ridiculous. _He is_ , she corrected herself and raised an eyebrow. “Jaskier.” Her voice was stable. As if she didn’t feel a weight coming off her shoulders.

That same weight seemed to abandon Jaskier’s shoulders as well but he didn’t have the intention to hide it. He let out a loud sigh. “Oh, thank the gods!” He looked around, breathless, and then back at her, for the first time unable to utter any words.

Yennefer frowned in confusion and smirked. “I wouldn’t say the same for you.” She paused, waiting for a comeback to her sarcasm but, as she saw Jaskier just standing there, looking at her as though he was looking at a ghost, she knew something was wrong. And as she noticed the dark circles under the bard’s eyes and exhaustion draining his otherwise bright look, she feared that this something might be more than familiar. She tilted her head. “Why are you here, bard?”

Jaskier stared at her for a couple of seconds as if he had forgotten why he was there in the first place. Then he lowered his look, cleared his throat. “Can I come in?”

For some reason, even before he had finished the sentence, Yennefer had already stepped aside to let him pass. She closed the door behind her and if the food of the spying neighbour was burning on the frying pan, well that was none of her business. She turned around, faced the bard, crossed her arms on her chest, and waited. And oddly, so did Jaskier. But he was never the patient type anyway. He huffed and shook his head, rolling his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Before she could even reject the thought of asking him what he meant since she didn’t really care, he went close and threw his arms around her, holding her tight. _Hugging_ her. He was hugging her. 

Even more outrageous, she hugged him back. Not because she felt her heart returning to her place. Not because he was the first friendly face she’d seen in months. Not because he was _alive_ in her arms. Definitely not. Only because, as soon as they relaxed a bit in each other’s arms, he started trembling and, after a moment, he buried his face in her shoulder. She frowned but, for some reason, she knew exactly how he felt. Someone to hurt with, she thought. Even if she didn’t show it. She swallowed. “Jaskier.”

Jaskier took a shaky breath and suddenly his arms were gone, he took a step back and wiped his eyes. “Yeah, uh, sorry, it’s just--” He trailed off, his voice choked in his throat, quivered. A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. “I just-- I saw you… I saw--”

“Hush.” He felt a hand on his shoulder and another one, guiding his hand away from his face, letting some stray tears fall. Yennefer looked at him and nodded. If she remembered what she saw too and if her eyes sparkled a bit in the sunlight, he noticed but he didn’t have to say anything. She squeezed his hand. “Hush. I know.”

Oh. She knew too well.

~~

She always adored the scent of lilac. It reminded her of her mother, she always smelled like that. She had decided to wear it too, like a war loot or like the last string keeping her tied to what could have been, what never was. She couldn’t tell. After some time, she stopped bothering.

Yet now, as she walks the path, buried among purple and pink lilacs that feel more like a cave than a garden, she finds no familiarity in their scent. Only doubt, fear, hostility. She feels smothered, breathes silently, as if any louder breath will be her last. She doesn’t stop, doesn’t go back. She keeps walking, steady and quick, following the path, avoiding to look around. She hadn’t seen that garden before. It felt familiar though. A place where she’s been before, where she always was. A garden that was inside her all the time, now spreading around her, above her, hiding the sun, ready to swallow her whole.

She doesn’t look back.

She knows she wouldn’t like what she saw if she did. She knows all those dead flowers, she’d been the one to let them die. It doesn’t matter, never does. They deserved it. It was the best, for her, for them, for everything that was left. She has new, bloomed flowers to pursue. Always does. A voice inside tells her she’ll never rest.

And then the path stops. The voice stops. The last flower wilts in front of her eyes. And behind her, as though coming from the inside of a cave, someone is choking.

She turns around. She knew she shouldn’t have, she hears the thumping of her heart when she faces a jungle of wild, dry branches, the ones that shone purple a moment ago. Her breath hitches. No, she mustn’t look back. She has nothing there left for her. Nothing and no one. But the moment she makes to leave again, the choking is heard again. And for some reason, she knows what it is. And for some reason, she cares enough to turn around, her feet suddenly numb, and head to wherever the sound is coming from. 

She grew the flowers and let them die herself. She was the one to leave those branches bare and wild, their thorns growing to reach her skin, her eyes, enclosing her, catching her dress, as though mocking her for having hope, for searching she knows is lost. 

Oh, but it is not lost. She had been the one to save it, she would know. She had been the one to turn around, just like she does now, and turns, and faces what she had once saved, and suddenly she gets the urge to scream.

Blood. Rivers of blood, flowing down his lips, his neck, dried or not, flooding the ground, his shirt. A pair of blue eyes staring at her wide, accusing, lifeless, dead. A wide, bloody gap is slitting his throat in the middle, dark and gushing and he still chokes, although dead, but not quite. Her hands are trembling. It’s not supposed to go this way. She can save him, she has before. She will now. She will. The thorns prickle her skin. _Too late, too late_. She can’t.

Her breathing is fast, shaking as she approaches, looks into his eyes, dark in all their brightness, and oh, she knows that look, it’s the same, always the same. Indifference, rivalry. Blame. But it was not like this once. They were past that. And back again. 

And then a thought flashes in her mind and if her heart had already been weeping in her chest, now it stops beating at all. He can’t be alone. He’s never alone. He can’t be dead. 

Someone always saves him.

_What’s next? Are you going to die from a garden pitchfork?_

Like a wave hitting her, a storm blowing her off the ground and the branches are closing around again and she whips her head around, and sees it. White hair. _No_. She runs. She doesn’t know why she’s running, doesn’t know what she’s still hoping for. Maybe it’s reassurance, maybe it’s revenge, maybe it’s regret. Maybe it’s all of these together bore by a single person, the one she’d told her she was important, the one who is now sprawled on the ground as the storm rages around her and purple petals are flowing with the wind as she screams once more and falls on her knees and takes him into her arms, cradling him like an infant. _No, no, no._ His armour is hidden under a coat of red, resembling more to a blanket than blood, and his abdomen is gushing like a water spring and she watches in horror. She can save him, she will save him. _Too late, too late_. Her hands are weak, barely holding any magic, draining her, leaving her bare, empty, a body of nothing thrown away once more. 

A sob rips her chest.

Maybe that’s how they get to retire, after all.

Yennefer is drenched in cold sweat when she opens her eyes. A silent gasp escapes her lips. As she sits up and looks around, breathless, she knows what’s running down her cheeks is not sweat drops. 

~~

“Yennefer.”

She flinched slightly and turned her head to meet cornflower blue eyes looking at her with… concern? Jaskier was sitting across her on the table, a deep frown creasing his forehead. The faint line between his eyebrows told her he’d been frowning a lot lately. He shook his head. “Everything alright?”

He knew it was not alright. He knew by the way Yennefer’s stare was trapped by the fire, as if desperately searching for an escape she wouldn’t find not even in her sleep. He knew from the way her violet eyes were a bit shinier than usual, a bit wetter. From the way her delicate fingers were curled into fists all the way through her talking of what she had seen the first time it happened. He knew.

He knew because, rather than Yennefer, that whole time he was watching a mirror of himself.

Yet he knew better than to comment. Instead, with a deep sigh, he poured another cup of wine for both of them, humming softly when he noticed the bottle was almost empty. A shame, really. It was a pleasant deceit, believing they would forget everything like that.

Yennefer swallowed, were it saliva or tears, or both, she couldn’t tell. Rather, she could, but did not want to. She tilted her head, eyed the bard up and down as he almost downed probably the third cup of wine. Suddenly, she felt she wouldn’t like what would follow if they went on like that. He wouldn’t like it either. “You’ll need to sleep after so much wine,” she said and she would lie if she didn’t already know the answer. Jaskier raised an eyebrow and chuckled, bitter. Resigned.

“I might as well. Won’t have trouble to remember the dream afterwards.”

Somehow, she didn’t like that tone, that exhaustion she saw rooting from every part of him. Somehow, it wasn’t Jaskier. And somehow, she wanted it to be. More than she would ever expect. “I can help you. A spell to keep you awake.”

She felt her heart breaking as she saw Jaskier’s smile slowly fading. Even there, even bitter, it held a little bit of him. Now it was gone. Except for the look in his eyes. She’d seen that look before, every time he was looking at Geralt. Every time _she_ was looking at Geralt. That look, but a little bit more hollow. A little bit emptier. Jaskier, as if reading her thoughts in an ironic reverse of roles, lowered his eyes. “Sometimes… Sometimes, I miss Geralt so much,” his voice quivered, broke like a sword blade, “so much that I prefer to see him in my dreams. Even like that. Even… dead.” He laughed in a way that resembled more to a sob than laughter and looked at Yennefer again, eyes wide, hands trembling, shaking his head. “And I haven’t slept in four weeks. I think…” he paused, shrugged as if it was the least of his problems. Took a sip of wine. “I think I’m going mad.”

Yennefer didn’t speak. Not immediately, at least. Alas, what could she say to a man like Jaskier, a man that was so desperate to love he was hanging even from the slightest chances. What could she say to a man in who she could clearly discern herself? Nothing more than what she said to herself every day. Nothing more than staring at him, the usual sharp look of her eyes now subsiding to something gentler. Empathy. “You love him.”

Not a question. A statement. And not because she just realized. But because what else could she say to herself? Maybe, maybe that way, maybe by seeing Jaskier admit his love, she would admit it too. Just like she did before learning about that damn wish.

Jaskier raised his look, smiled. A ghost of a smile. “As much as you do.”

Oh, he was cunning.

Because he knew, he knew what she did not dare to admit. He knew how much she loved Geralt. He knew his love couldn’t ever surpass hers, so the best thing he had to do was to love him the same amount. And that was more than a lot.

She did. Still, she was too cautious to fall into the same trap. After all, the only one whose feelings were not tied to destiny at the moment was Jaskier. And she knew better than to turn back, to look what she left behind her. So she just shook her head. She knew better and there was one thing she knew best. “Sometimes the best a flower can do for us is to die.”

“A flower?” The way Jaskier laughed made her shiver. His expression was incredulous. “We’re talking about a whole fucking garden here, Yennefer!”

_Oh, we do_ , she thought. _I’ve_ _seen_ _it_.

She huffed and took a sip of wine. “A wild garden. With thorns.”

Silence. Unusual, she would say, tease, were it a different time. Now she didn’t dare. She knew how to deceive people. Somehow, right now, Jaskier was not _people_. And well. In all those years, she had never managed to deceive herself.

Jaskier’s eyelids were getting heavy. Was it tiredness, grief, insomnia, he couldn’t tell. Yet his eyes remained fixed on Yennefer and his voice, drained of all its melody, still sounded firm. “I saw Geralt dead. I saw _you_ dead.” He frowned. “Do you think I cared about the thorns?” He leaned forward as if pushing the knife deeper into her heart. “You did?”

“No,” she replied in her calmest voice and she knew, oh she knew he was right. And she knew how she couldn’t take her eyes off him. “No, I didn’t.”

He nodded as if he didn’t already know the answer. And fell back on his chair. Gazed at her, restless, as though retrieving every time he saw her lying on the ground, Yennefer of Vengerberg, weak and lifeless. An image, an idea he could never get a grasp of and wished he never would. H knew where to find her, he was a bard, travelling, hearing things. Heard how a raven-haired sorceress had returned like a ghost to a house in Vengerberg, hers they said it was. Beaten and bloody. He heard how the battle at Sodden Hill had ended. A raven haired sorceress, spilling fire from the tips of her fingers, and he knew how the same fingers were once fondling scarred skin. He thought he shouldn’t go, at first. He had no reason to see her again, no ace to play. But then, another time, another nightmare. Another night he dared not close his eyes, he could not stand losing everything once more. He decided to find what he’d lost before night found him again.

A tear flowed down his face but he didn’t notice it. He only looked at the fire, his eyes half-closed, desperate to return to their doom. Yennefer noticed it. Noticed how his hands, rested on the table, were trembling more now. And she was afraid to let him sleep. So she did something she didn’t ever think she’d do, and yet oh, how right it felt. She took his hand in hers. And as he turned to look at her, not with surprise but understanding, as he squeezed her hand, she took a deep breath. She heard it, every night. She could hear it once again. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jaskier’s eyes didn’t say no.

~~

He’s running. Running and panting and wheezing and running and not stopping until… Until when? When is he going to stop? Why is he running? Where is he going?

He stumbles on his feet, stops abruptly. He can feel his heart beating out of his chest, breaking it into splinters. He breathes heavily, wraps his arms around his body, curls to himself, kneels. He wants to disappear, now and here, even if the earth opened and swallowed him whole. His eyes are closed shut, not daring to open. Gods, he didn’t ask for this.

It’s fine. Everything is fine. Or it was, until now. He _is_ fine. Doing everything he wanted to do in his life, singing, writing, leaving whispers of his voice in every tavern and every bed, barely escaping trouble. That’s what he does. So what is this? Why is he like that now? Where is he? He knows where he is, knows what it looks like, that dark corner of his heart he hadn’t gone back to for a long time. Or maybe it felt like a long time. But he wished to keep it this way.

Fuck Destiny, he thought, and all its tricks and guiles and that damned string where they all hang from like marionettes in an unending play. Fuck it and fuck everything it has brought. His breathing evens but he doesn’t open his eyes. He almost laughs to himself. Oh, he had wished to live life to the fullest, he did, to savour every feeling, every heartbreak, every beauty. He is a poet, after all. And what is a poet but a sea of emotions?

He did ask for this. Long ago, when he was younger and thirsty to live. Still is. He knew it would hurt, wanted it to hurt. He could never imagine it would hurt so much. Oh, he was a fool.

He opens his eyes, looks around. A smile curves his lips for a moment. Oh, it’s beautiful indeed. A cage, but still beautiful. Surrounded by flowers and colours, gladiolas, lilacs, forget-me-nots. His fists unclench and he stands on his feet looking around. He wishes he had his notebook with him to depict such beauty, even if he failed. It was beautiful, this garden, yes. Just like the one at home. He tilted his head and approached the bushes, inspected the flowers, swallowing their scent. He used to make flower crowns when he travelled with Geralt. Then he put it in his hair, delighted to see his flaming yet somehow still gentle look.

He’d never imagined he would crave to be burnt.

He reaches to pick up a lilac stem. It won’t hurt to have some fun.

Only that when he does, the flower wilts. And everything else around him. And he screams. Because every flower, every little life his eyes had savoured a moment ago felt like a dagger in his heart. Fitting, he thinks as his body curved in pain, for a poet. The things you love the most always hurt you the deepest.

He breathes out the pain, looks around him. It’s dark now, and he starts walking and the more he walks the darker it gets and the densest the bare branches get and he starts running again and he runs and runs, and his clothes are tattered by the thorns and his legs bruised by the branches and yet, this voice, a singing voice floats in the air, in his mind calling him, _this is it, the path you must trudge, you fool_ , and he runs and then he stumbles on something and stops. And looks at his feet.

And with a sharp breath, he turns around and vomits.

He doesn’t want to look again. He does anyway. Falls on his knees, reaches for a limp hand, fingers broken and out of place. He feels. She doesn’t. Only smiles, a paradox, and stares at him, with those lilac eyes, empty and yet so full. He can’t tell with what. Despair, disappointment, regret. The barest hint of resentment, just so he does not forget their tradition. Cold, but in a different way than they were. Cold like the rest of her. ‘ _You really thought you’re better? You really thought feelings can be controlled? By_ you _?’_ the voice laughs maliciously and he cries. 

And he looks again, beside him, one last time and another sob wracks him whole. _Geralt, Geralt, Geralt_. He reaches out, touches his face, his hand red with blood, and he’s cold and gods, the terror of losing him was nothing compared to the terror of having lost him already. _He’s so beautiful when he sleeps_ , he thinks. _Come on, dear, open your eyes, it’s alright, come on. I’ll write you the best song, only for you. My love, my soul, open your eyes._

He lies there, on his chest. In his hand, he’s still clutching delicate, severed fingers. He cries. He can do nothing else.

Jaskier shakes and whimpers as he sits up on his bed, barely able to control his movements, his lips parted in a strangled cry. He’s not breathing. Has no intention to. He hugs his knees and hides his head, shoulders broken by sobs, and like that he stays.

~~

Yennefer turned around at the sound of a whimper and cursed under her breath. She knew she shouldn’t have let Jaskier sleep. And really, she didn’t intend to, but before she managed to turn away the man had passed out on the spot. The ‘spot’ being the table. He’d fallen asleep on the table. 

She could wake him. But as she watched him there, moments ago, fingers still loosely wrapped around a half-finished glass of wine, curls tousled as he rested his head on his arm, something told her to let him be. Who knew, maybe even those few minutes he could stay asleep were a blessing. They were not, she knew. But there is a charm in self-deceit she couldn’t help but challenge. 

Something else laughed at her as she watched him and she suspected it was her own heart, but she chose to ignore it.

So there she was now, going numb for some seconds as the bard’s fists clenched and unclenched on the table and his cries came out broken and his shoulders shook and if she heard closer, she could even discern a word of coherence between his helpless mumblings.

“Geralt, please, no, not again…”

For a moment, she smiled at herself. Of course it was Geralt. But it was only for a moment. Because she found herself unable to hear his heartbreaking sobs anymore and she approached him. With a hand on his trembling shoulder, she shook him hard. “Jaskier, wake up!” Yet she got no response. Only a shallow gasp and Jaskier’s fist banged the table as another cry escaped his lips. She shook her head with a snort and nudged him again. “Come on, now!” Another sob. “Hey!”

She rolled her eyes and twirled her fingers, the cup near her filling with water. Could she wake him up with a snap of her fingers? Yes, of course she could. Did she though? Of course, she did not. 

Instead, she took the cup of cold water and threw it on the bard’s face. And Jaskier jolted up with a cry. 

She didn’t want to admit it. But the look haunting his eyes shattered her heart in a million pieces. Hollow, terrified, alert. Exhausted, as if knowing what had happened even before he had returned to reality. If she looked closer, she could discern the sweat and the tears that flooded his eyes. Thanks to the water, she didn’t. Yet she really didn’t need to.

Jaskier took a look around the room panting until his eyes rested on her. And, as though with a strike of thunder, memories found him again and he sobbed with relief. “Oh, gods, Yennefer.” He stared at her, swallowed. His lips were trembling, quite a fitting sight with his red eyes. He breathed again, then hid his face inside his hands. “Fuck.”

Yennefer didn’t speak, only looked at him and oh, how she wished she didn’t. She wasn’t sure why she wished that, anymore. Maybe because she once again saw herself, every night she dared to let her eyelids get heavy, every night she dared to seek some rest. Maybe because watching Jaskier now, like that, drained of all his vitality and cheer and egoism and arrogance, drained of _himself_ , she felt that was worse. So much worse. And she still wasn’t sure why.

She walked beside him, Rested her hand on his shoulder again and, even though she heard nothing, she felt the sobs convulsing his body. And maybe she felt her eyes burning too. Still, Jaskier shivered from the touch, or the warmth it sent through him, or whatever it was that made his breathing even and him to heave a deep sigh. He let his head fall on her waist, still soaked, swallowed. After some seconds, he spoke. “You were not in my dream.” At the same time, he felt hesitant, barely-there fingers tangling in his hair. He raised his head to look at her. At the faint candlelight, she saw his eyes sparkling with tears. “You weren’t there this time, Yennefer. I only saw Geralt.” 

Sweet Melitele, he looked like a ridiculous puppy. Yennefer held herself from laughing while staring at him and instead, as she considered what he’d said, she frowned. She didn’t answer though. Only thought about it. Then she saw as Jaskier closed his eyes and lowered his head again with a shaky breath. And decided against speaking, for now. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” It was for the best, she thought, for both, if they wanted to maintain their mental stability for the night. The hum coming from Jaskier agreed. She then gained consciousness of her fingers still running through the bard’s hair. It was soft, messy from an unfortunate sleep. She winced, yet she didn’t draw her hand immediately.

She didn’t want to be sure why.

So she patted his shoulder when his head went to loll again and he flinched slightly. “Talk. Or sing. Do something.”

He scrunched his nose in confusion as he rubbed his eyes. “Am I still awake?” A smile crept upon his lips. “Are you really asking me to--?”

“A necessary evil, if you will,” she raised an eyebrow at him and her heart fluttered as he shook his head mockingly. That was better. Sarcasm was a language they both spoke fluently. “Can’t have the neighbours knocking on my door because of your screams,” she tilted her head pensively, “not that they would dare.” Jaskier’s chuckle made her smile. She sighed and looked at him. “I’m going to make some tea.”

“Oh, Yenny, you do spoil me,” the bard sang smugly and she shot him a glare, non-threateningly.

“Don’t get used to it,” she snapped and ignored the way her cheeks burned at the nickname.

Jaskier’s snort behind her back implied that he knew. And he could get used to it.

~~

“Geralt. Hey, Geralt!”

Geralt jolted up with a gasp and opened his eyes, his breath short. He panted and looked around, his mind adapting to where he actually was. Tall, dark walls, a candle flickering on the table, the almost burnt-out fire in the fireplace. The scent of wood. Home. His eyes met emerald green ones beside his bed and he stilled, eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

A hand on his arm. “Are you alright?”

He blinked, tilted his head and felt his chest warming at the touch. So, so much warmer than moments ago, when the only thing he could feel was freezing dread. He huffed. Ciri. “Yeah, of course,” he nodded and Ciri raised an eyebrow in disbelief. He hid a smile. Oh, she was too smart. He sighed, knowing he could not deceive her even if he tried and then noticed her eyes. Dark, and red and flooding with shed and swallowed tears. “What happened?”

Ciri sniffed and shook her head. “A nightmare. Not that bad,” Geralt winced at the thought of a child being able to know what a worse nightmare was like, “but I was wondering…” She shrugged, the look in her eyes resembling that of a puppy. Geralt was unable to hold back his smile this time. “Can I sleep here?”

He chuckled and took her hand, drawing her closer. “You shouldn’t be asking.” Ciri giggled and he knew that hearing that sound for the rest of his life was enough forgiveness for his mistakes. The girl climbed the bed and snuggled in his side, resting her head on his arm. He gazed at her, brushed her ashen hair back and pressed a kiss on her head. She hummed. Looked at him, eyes wide. “You were having a nightmare too.” It was not a question. Of course it was not. Geralt held her closer, his look absent. He didn’t answer. “Will you find them?”

He frowned, looked down at her. “Who?”

“Whoever you see in your dreams, Geralt,” she said in a tone almost exasperated as if she couldn’t believe what he just asked. Then her voice softened. “You seem to miss them.”

Geralt had had many wounds in his life. Yet he knew this one hurt the most, and it would be the most difficult to heal. He swallowed, shook his head. Quite simple, coming from the lips of a child. He missed them. Quite simple. “I will,” he said and for the first time after months, he believed it. Too long had he tried to escape Destiny. To escape his choices. He stared at Ciri. Those times were over now. “I will find them, yes.”

With a content smile, Ciri hid her head under the covers and yawned. He tightened his embrace. The dread was almost gone now.

Spring had come already. They would leave soon. He would find them, yes, and the only thing he could hope for was not forgiveness, not anymore. He hoped for them to be alive. A voice inside his head told him his hopes were not vain, not this time.

That night, in his dream, he saw them lying together, hands entwined. And dead.

~~

Geralt walked a few meters, then stopped. Turned around and let his gaze linger on the closed gates of the temple. He could feel the emptiness of his hand, some days ago warmed by another hand, smaller yet firm just like his. He clenched his fist. By accident, or not, he also crumpled the paper he was holding, tightly, as if all the tension weighing his chest would dissolve like that. He took a deep breath. He could feel Nenneke’s eyes still on him, even behind closed doors, and he knew what her look was like. Judging yet encouraging. Parental.

He raised his hand and read the written note on the crumpled paper. He knew those letters. He knew the hand that carved them even better. And at the thought of it, his fingers started shaking. 

He let out the breath he was previously holding and turned to leave. He wasn’t far away anyway.

~~

“For fuck’s sake, Jaskier! I would beg you to stop fidgeting but that’s far too low for me to fall.”

Yennefer glared at him as he fumbled with his lute, nervously pulling at the strings not because he was playing anything, but because he wanted something to occupy his hands with. He swallowed as his eyes met hers and faked a smile. “Forgive me, dear. I tend to forget there’s no lower ground for you to reach.” The glow sparkling in Yennefer’s fingertips and her raised eyebrow made him stop and clear his throat. He rolled his eyes. “You’re not playing fair.”

“Urgent problems require drastic measures, _dear_.” Her voice was sharp and cold but if Jaskier listened closer, if he wanted to listen closer, he’d discern a hint of fondness, of something that was never there before. He wanted to listen closer. Did, for the past days. And the more he listened, the more he talked, as if to avoid, or instead hasten whatever it was that dripped from his own tongue. Her violet eyes glinted in the daylight. He heaved a deep, shaky sigh and averted his look, admittedly one of the few times he managed to do that. He fixed his eyes outside the window of the tavern. 

“Do you think he’ll come?” 

Still uncertain, always uncertain. It was the fifth, maybe the tenth time he had asked. It was the fifth, definitely tenth time Yennefer had given him an exhausted look that screamed _‘yes, he will, please shut up,’_ and he still didn’t _._ Uncertain. But how could he not be?

He had been certain for twenty-two years. And look where it’d gotten him.

He strummed his lute once more and abruptly silenced the sound. Looked at Yennefer again. She was peering at him, expression unreadable as always, even for him. And he was exceptional at reading what hides under. Still, as their eyes locked for a moment and she didn’t deign to be the one to look away, he lowered his eyes. Warmth crawled up his neck and cheeks. He chose to ignore it and thankfully, so did she, yet a smirk played on her lips.

“You should take a walk.”

He flinched as if he wasn’t expecting her to speak. He frowned and shook his head. “I can’t. What if--”

“When Geralt comes, he’s going to stay,” Yennefer’s tone really left no room for objections. So did her eyes. “And if he’s not, even though highly unlikely, _I_ won’t let him go anywhere anyway so that we finally get some damn sleep.” She paused for a moment, as if to read him. “If that’s what you want.”

Jaskier could feel his hands trembling on the strings. Yet he smiled a lopsided grin, hiding behind it. “Are you indulging me now, witch? You failed to inform me about our relationship’s upgrade,” he winked at her, “I fear I won’t be able to return the favour tonight.” The way Yennefer huffed incredulously and rolled her eyes made him chuckle and, with a short breath, he placed his lute aside. He stood up, somehow still feeling Yennefer’s eyes above him, burning. “You’re right.”

She raised her eyebrows with a shrug. “I always am.”

He bit his lips and made to leave but stopped in his tracks, without looking at her. “If he asks, tell him…” He could feel the sorceress’s eyes piercing him. A faint, sad smile curved his lips and he glanced at her. “Oh, he knows.”

He couldn’t tell why he was certain this time. So he turned to leave.

Yennefer’s somber look followed him until he walked out the door.

~~

Geralt spotted her the moment he entered the tavern. The room was crowded, yet as he took a few steps, he realized it was not loud enough to cover the sound of his heart ready to beat out of his chest. If he listened more closely, he could also hear the sound of another heart, this one faster than his but still beating as hard. She raised her eyes, met his. Didn’t waver though. He was the only coward here.

Oh, how he had missed her. Even like that, her look cold and withdrawn, it was better, so much better than the last time he saw her. Tears suited her violet eyes, made them sparkle like amethysts, as much as they broke his heart. But now it was better. As better as one who has learned to deal with pain can be. 

He knew about that.

She was alone. He thought he preferred it that way. For now, at least.

He sat on the bench across her, silent in all the hubbub of his mind. Stared at her for some moments as she stared back, stabbing him with her look. Unreadable. He could tell now, how frustrating it was to fail to understand the other’s feelings. Regret started forming like a lump in his throat, choking him. He swallowed. Decided that if he didn’t speak now, he would never do. “Yen.”

He would say she flinched at the sound of his voice, her name, the way he called her. He would say that if he didn’t know better. He did, though. Yennefer smiled bitterly. “Bold of you to start like this.”

Her voice. He shivered. Oh, her voice, sharp and enchanting, like he remembered it. Nothing like the way she screamed and wept his name in his dreams, nothing like the way it was haunting him for months. Suddenly, he felt like a wave had hit him. The lump choked him harder. All these times, all these nights when he couldn’t escape what seemed to be his worst fear, her, lying on the ground like a deformed porcelain doll. He felt his eyes burning. Shook his head, biting his lips. “You’re…” She raised her eyebrow in anticipation, making him huff. “Gods, you’re _alive_.” 

He saw her freezing. Her eyes widened. He heard her breath hitching, the smile on her lips fading. “Why would I not be?” She asked as if she didn’t know, as if she wanted to hear it, again, again, coming from his lips.

Geralt felt the urge to laugh at the question, his mind unburying everything he saw, everything he struggled not to remember. “I saw you.” He breathed shakily. “I saw you--”

“Geralt.”

A hand on his. He looked at her, eyebrows furrowed in frustration. Suddenly, it looked like the ice in her eyes had melted. Yet she didn’t speak. She didn’t need to, he understood. And that was the worst part of it. Because as he did, he saw the exhaustion of two sleepless months forming in her look, sorrow, pain, despair. And yet, withdrawn all the same. Of course she was. He had given her no reason not to be. 

He snorted, took her hand in his, squeezed it. Her sharp gaze made him falter. “I’m sorry--”

“You’re sorry.” Yennefer huffed and drew her hand back, leaving him bare. “That’s too bad for you. But I can do nothing with it. Not me.” She shook her head, a smile that resembled a wince curving her lips. “You gave me hope. Made me hope that this time would be different, that this time I truly mattered. And then snatched this hope from my hands like it was nothing. You’re sorry, well,” she laughed bitterly, “you won’t believe how sorry _I_ am.”

“Listen.” Geralt heard his voice coming out strangled as if he was wounded by a hundred blades. He rushed, stumbled to make it right, he had to. His hands were trembling. “I know it’s not enough. But I don’t intend to drop out of it like I don’t care, because I do,” he chuckled helplessly, “I care much more than I thought I ever would. Because you’re important. To me. Because I…” He paused, gazed at her like she was the most beautiful, precious creature on earth. She was. “I love you, Yen.”

This time, he could say he saw her eyes sparkling a bit more in the sunlight. He knew, though, that it was not because of the sun. Yennefer swallowed, her lips tight. She was over this, she had no reason to turn around. She knew the flowers behind her had wilted. It was too late to care to save them now; they were never the ones to try to save her anyway. Never. She glanced at the lute case at her feet. Almost never, she would think if she was naive. Yet when had she received selfless love to get it now?

She fixed her eyes on Geralt’s. Shining gold, like the sun over the garden they would once grow when they retired. She would smile at the memory if she wasn’t already tired. Dreams, promises, words. All predefined once again, depriving her of choice once more, faking love and mocking at her hope. Still, she was gazing at him and oh, how she had missed him. Moving, talking, staring at her with the start of that fond smile on his lips. She was old, too old to believe in words once more. And yet she did. And she hated that she did. 

But when did she care about the thorns?

His eyes, devouring her, leaving her bare. His look, flooding with all the world’s apologies. Not enough, never enough.

She shook her head, voice broken. “Oh, Geralt.”

~~

The room was illuminated by the last rays of the sun as Jaskier entered through the door, inspecting every table, every chair, his gaze leaving empty-handed. Nothing. He saw nothing. No white hair, no familiar eyes. He halted on the spot, a wave of panic momentarily passing through him. He didn’t come. Didn’t want to, even worse, couldn’t. The dreams. What if the dreams had come true? What if--

The moment he saw Yennefer on their table, the moment he took the time to understand her look, a sigh escaped him like a weight flying off his chest. He swallowed, closed his eyes for a moment. He was here. He was…

Yennefer gestured at the stairs. Upstairs. He was upstairs.

Jaskier peered at her for some seconds. If he didn’t know better, he’d say her eyes were red from insomnia. He did know better though, he had seen her cry before. He knew _her_ better.

So he approached her and she stood up as if refusing to let him be above her. Jaskier didn’t care though. He wasn’t here to neither think nor care. Instead, he cradled her face in his hands and placed a soft kiss on her lips. Didn’t draw back immediately. Waited long enough for her to kiss back, barely there, as if scared. He broke the kiss and stared at her. At her eyes, wide and stunned, at her brows raised in surprise, at her lips, still parted, the familiar smirk playing on them but now gentler. He shook his head, fond, and brushed a raven curl behind her ear.

Then, with a faint smile, he rushed upstairs, and he didn’t need to look behind to know that she still stood there, to know that she would stand there for even longer. Counting each step with short breaths, his heart running faster than him, he reached their shared room. And stopped. Right outside the door. If he was completely silent, he could hear soft breathing coming from inside. He knew Geralt already heard his. He raised his hand, touched the handle. Oh, he could hear breathing. He hadn’t heard it in so long, and his memory of hearing silence in its place made his knees weak. He swallowed. Alive. Geralt was alive.

With an abrupt move, he opened the door. Geralt jumped, although he was definitely expecting him. He would say he’d jumped at the sight of him, but he was far from hopeful at this moment. All he wanted, he realized, was to see him standing on his feet.

And he saw him. But oh, he saw so much more. His eyes, staring at him wide, regretful, hollow. Relieved. He saw the way his hair fell on his slumped shoulders, the way his fists clenched nervously, the slight tremble of his fingers, the way he put his weight on one leg. He saw his lips, a bittersweet smile embellishing them, so rare and so, so beautiful. He saw everything.

And suddenly, he remembered why he hoped in the first place.

He let out a sharp breath and turned to close the door, surprised he was still standing on his feet. And faced him. For once, silent. No matter how his eyes were burning. 

The look in Geralt’s eyes though, haunted, as if he saw a ghost, implied that silence wasn’t a state to be maintained. 

So when Geralt shook his head and walked up to him, throwing his arms around him, holding him tight on his chest, Jaskier had to break the silence, he had to. Thus he let out a sob. 

If he was stronger, maybe he would refuse. If he was stronger, maybe he would draw back. If he was stronger, he’d demand what needed to be said. And he would say what needn’t, but was choking him for too long to hold back now. Yet he was not.

So instead, he let his arms crawl around Geralt’s back, let his head fall on his shoulder, and let Geralt touch him, breathe him in, as he did with a flower, as he couldn’t do with all the flowers that had wilted on his way. He let Geralt tighten his hug even more, let him save everything he had thrown away, and everything he wasn’t quick enough to keep alive. And that was too much.

But he was too weak not to let him.

He could feel Geralt’s chest shaking, he could feel his breath warming his ear. He could feel the words, like the wind, vibrating inside his body. “I’m sorry, for everything, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Jaskier parted his lips, as if he could talk, as if he had anything to say except for a whimper. He didn’t. So he just tightened his arms around the witcher and buried his hand inside his hair, and let his tears fall. And oh, he was warm, he was moving, holding him. He didn’t imagine the first time Geralt held him so close would be like this, he didn’t imagine he would have already held Geralt a thousand times over, only cold, only dead. He didn’t imagine he would get to say the words that for so long hanged on his lips like this. Yet he did.

“Geralt.” His voice was trembling. His whole body was trembling. “Geralt,” he tried again and this time he drew back, just some inches, just to be able to look at him. He saw golden eyes flooding with tears that didn’t dare to fall. “I’m sorry too.” He huffed a laugh as Geralt furrowed his eyebrows but he didn’t let him object. “I’m sorry for not being clear. With you.” The look in the witcher’s eyes softened even more and Jaskier could feel his heart melting on the floor. He leaned closer, pressed their foreheads together, still staring at him. Shared his breath. Shared his whole life too. “I love you, Geralt. Gods,” he chuckled helplessly, “you must know. You must know I always did. I always--hmphh--”

Geralt was kissing him. He was kissing him deeply, and desperate and hungry, for all the times he hadn’t kissed him when he should, for all the times he had kissed him, but his lips were too cold to feel it. He kissed him, and Jaskier kissed back, and his knees were weak again, but not with fear, not this time. And they were drunk, with life, with joy, with all the love that was so brutally taken from them.

And then they parted, panting, laughing, drowning in each others’ eyes. Yennefer was lucky, Jaskier thought, lucky to have tasted Geralt’s lips so many times. He was lucky too, though. Because he couldn’t think of any time he would trade this first time with.

And there was a knock on the door, and Yennefer was on the threshold. She glanced at them, smiled, and now Jaskier knew her well enough to feel his heart aching with that smile. She lowered her look and went to close the door.

“Yen.”

Geralt felt terror choking him for a moment, until Yennefer turned at him again with a frown, resigned. He swallowed, outstretched his hand, fingers shaking as if aching to feel her. They did. She stilled for a moment, then took his hand hesitantly, her look flying on Jaskier and for some reason, the way he was smiling at her was a comfort. Comforting, as new as if felt. Having someone to love with. Despite the thorns.

The way Geralt pulled her into his hug, held her tightly, as if terrified she would fly, was a comfort. The way she looked at him and gods, she believed him, the way their lips touched, gently as if caressing a daisy with the fear of ruining its petals, it was a comfort. 

Geralt looked at her, at Jaskier, then tightened his arms around both of them. Everything he was missing. Everything he had found. There they are. 

“I love you,” he whispered and for once, Yennefer thought that words might be enough. “Both. I can’t--” he closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “I can’t lose you. Not again. I love you.” _More than I ever thought I could love_.

Silence. Filled with heartbeats.

Geralt felt Jaskier hiding his head in his neck, felt his lashes fluttering shut on his skin with a smile. He felt Yennefer placing a kiss on his temple, felt her forehead resting there. Yennefer felt her waist being cradled in gentle, calloused fingers. Jaskier felt a delicate hand holding his on Geralt’s back and squeezing it tight. Warmth.

Silence. 

It didn’t bother them, not this time. In peace, they would grow back their garden. In peace, and with love.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!
> 
> come say hi on tumblr, i'm [wanderlust-t](http://wanderlust-t.tumblr.com) <3


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